Here's how I want it to go.
We go out. Not just us - a whole group of work friends. Somewhere nice, a little noisy, crowded enough. Dimly lit. Great cocktails.
It gets late. I drink one too many negronis. I stop being able to prevent myself from staring at you like you're something I want to eat. My eyes track you everywhere you walk. Your face is beautiful and your body - your arms, your chest, your shoulders - is strong, every muscle defined. Every now and then you catch my eye, and the air between us fucking smoulders. I can't stop looking at the triangle of chest hair I can see at the top of your shirt. I can't stop thinking about your cock. I can feel myself getting wet, and I squirm against the velvet banquette.
Our workmates leave, one by one. There's only us, and a few stragglers remaining. They head to the bar, leaving us alone at our table in a dimly lit corner. Under the table, I feel your hand on my thigh and my arousal goes from a low hum to a loud roar. Your hand slides up my thigh, slowly. My pulse races. We keep chatting, and drinking - to anyone walking past, we look like any two workmates at the tail end of a long night.
The skirt on this cocktail dress is loose enough for you to slide your hand up higher, making the fabric ride up, until your hand lightly touches my panties. For a minute you stroke me through the fabric, a soft tease which drives me wild. You look up at me through your lashes and we lock eyes as you push aside the flimsy material and gently slide one finger into me. I'm dripping. Your finger is cool, and I'm burning hot. It feels amazing. I have that feeling, like all the blood is rushing out of my body. It makes me slightly dizzy, in a good way. Pleasure rises in waves from my cunt up through my abdomen.
Abruptly, you pull your hand away. I snap my head around and realise our colleague is walking over to the table. I see you push your hands under your thighs and I shift my legs to let my skirt drop back down. My heart is fucking racing. We pick up a conversation as though nothing is happening and say goodbye to our friend. As he walks off, I realise we're doing it again. Acting suspicious. I have an idea - you should leave, go to your hotel room, and I'll come in half an hour. Noone will know. You slip me the spare room card under the table. I can feel your fingers are still damp.
The next half hour is torture. My cunt is tingling with anticipation, and my heart is still thumping. Even though I'm kind of drunk, I manage to keep a conversation going with a colleague until half an hour has passed and I can escape. I step out into the cool night air and take a deep breath. It's only two blocks to your hotel. I've never walked so fast in heels.
In the hotel elevator, I top up my red lipstick and fix my hair. The lift door pings open and I step out, and kick off my shoes, picking them up in one hand. I walk softly down the hallway and tap the card, opening the door without a word. It's dim, but not dark inside your hotel room. The lights are off but the blinds are open to the nighttime city, so I can see you sitting in an armchair by the window, holding a glass of something. I drop my bag and heels on the floor and stare at you. It's light enough for me to see there's already an impressive bulge in your pants. You've been warming up for me.
